Didn't you know?

Sometimes the best way to look at things is through the bleary eyes of your own slackening interest in the reality around you. There develops that still crystal fissure in the mind from which you see the golden rays of an impossible sunshine pouring in—don’t you want to pick at it like a scab?

The whole reason for reasoning is that we don’t know, and are desperate to find out just what is going on.

Doesn’t it feel like an insect in a jar?

There are times, there are places, there are people, and there are things. The sheer volume of nouns astounds the intellect, but didn’t you know? Do you know why, in the deep stages of autumn reflection, when the dewy drops of inspiration are perspiring upon your tongue, you feel like sneezing?

Is it not the time and place to make a stand and truly know what it is that you’ve gone through all the trouble preparing for? Is it not but once in a mortal man’s life that he gets to stand before himself and openly mock that which he sees before him with impunity—even enthusiasm?

If there were ever a time to overanalyze, wouldn’t that time be best utilized doing so with wild and reckless abandon?

Digging deeper, cutting the roots from the soil, plunging consciously into the core of it all and not once looking back...could you ever go back? Once you take that spin and heap your winnings on that game of pitch and toss—could you handle it if you lost?

Would it be worth it? Does that even matter?

Of all the things that could and would be, of all the things that should not be, would you walk among them with stoic confidence knowing that you could not fail—even if every nerve and sinew within were about to burst forth from the strain?

This isn’t about anything that can be written with the hand-felt pen. This isn’t about anything that can be uttered with the force of breath and moist warm air.

This is real—this is living. Feel it as if your life depended on it, because it does. The idle mornings, the listless days, the feeble nights—destroy them as you would a murderer in your home.

You are not a puppet.

Scrape the weary crust from your tired eyes and turn the verb “see” into “look” as you stand on your own two feet and grip the fabric of the world that is no longer your master. The conscious are bondless and the only freedom you will prize from this soil is the mastery of your own destiny, wrested from the hands of apathy and fear and wrought of the fiber that supports your ever-driving will.

You cannot do it alone.

A single ant, alone upon the hill, is no more effective than the idle crumb upon the windowsill that it so desperately seeks. The same two hands that you claim as your own only reach and grasp so far, but to multiply that is to achieve greater things that can only be expressed in the exponential.

There are times, there are places, there are people, and there are things; when, where, who, and what will you be?

Don’t you know?